


to write it down (that is walking on hallowed ground)

by icemachine



Series: doom patrol daily drabbles [12]
Category: Doom Patrol (TV)
Genre: Gen, Love Poems, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 01:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icemachine/pseuds/icemachine
Summary: The love poems were faceless. They never had a subject, they only existed out of Larry’s tendency to crave, Larry’s constant thought of touch.Cliff was never meant to find them.





	to write it down (that is walking on hallowed ground)

He started in 1968.

It was Rita’s idea; being in the entertainment industry, she was familiar with writing.  _ It would be a good way to express your feelings, Larry,  _ she had said.  _ I can tell you have a lot of… things you need to work through. Don’t worry, we all do. Give it some thought.  _ She had handed him a thick notebook, and left for her room—

“I can tell you have a lot of things you need to work through” was a haunting statement. How did Rita know? Was she observing him? Can he be read so easily? Is his story truly that stereotypical? Why did he have to drag everyone he cared about into his own personal hell?

_ She was right. _

He needed an outlet. He needed  _ something -  _ something private, something entirely his own, some way to exhale his suffering & words blossom in his mind unwavering regardless but, before the accident, he never let them out. Larry feared that someone would find his thoughts and out him - but afterwards, it never mattered. Beforehand, he kept the words in, behind his teeth, down his throat, hidden in each nerve, but after his life changed there was no real reason to keep himself locked down.

His first poem was about John.

The pages have almost faded completely, now. Three pages, too many emotions. He doesn’t mind. It’s better that way, it’s just another failed attempt to leave John in the past, but he can still make a few words out:

_ Love is like … falling from the … I let you go … love burning skin, more intense than the scorch of a fire, the passion of a flame …. the grave of us …. I visit you sometimes … there’s something inside of me and it’s you and it isn’t … love … love .. love _

In the present, Larry makes an effort to write at least once a week. It’s like breathing. Words are.. easy, a way to take the weapon he has turned into - the weapons that have been used against him - and neutralize it all. A healing process.

After Cliff moved into the manor, it turned into two times a week. Three times a week. By 2001, he had used up every page in Rita’s notebook and was forced to acquire a new one. In 2003, the same situation occurred. 2006. Eventually, he started buying them in bulk.

He kept the old ones in the top drawer of his dresser. Most of them were love poems. The pages that didn’t contain love poems were about trauma, about being tortured and torturing and everything he has endured and barely survived.

The love poems were faceless. They never had a subject, they only existed out of Larry’s tendency to crave, Larry’s constant thought of touch. Sixty years of not touching anyone is a grave in itself. Some were sexual, some were innocent, every one about desire. No pronouns were ever used, beyond  _ you.  _ Always  _ you,  _ **never ** _ he. _

Cliff was never meant to find them. No one was meant to find them, but especially not Cliff. He can’t know. He - he  _ can’t  _ know. Larry doesn’t understand what it is that Cliff cannot know; only  _ he can’t know he can’t know he can’t know  _ runs through his mind like falling.

He’s standing in Larry’s room, flipping through the notebook. He’s sure he kept it hidden underneath his mattress, how the  _ hell  _ did Cliff find it?

“Cliff, what the hell?”

He shuts it, places it gently on Larry’s bed. “Oh, hey. Rita cut herself on something, she sent me up here to get bandages, I… did you write those, Larry? Because—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s an incriminating sentence. He realizes that after it leaves him.

“Come on. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You came up here for bandages and you ended up holding my notebook. How did that happen? Were you looking through my room?”

“It was sitting there open next to them. I got curious.” Cliff stops, presses his hand to his head. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, just don’t tell anyone.”

“Whatever you want, we can forget that this happened,” Cliff says. He picks up a sliced off strip of bandages, turns to the door. “Wait.” His back is turned to Larry. “I just want you to know… your writing… is amazing. Really good. I’ve never read anything like it.”

Something about Cliff’s compliment calms Larry’s anxieties.

“Thank you,” he says, low and hesitant. He retrieves the notebook from his bed and shoves it back into his dresser. “Thank you, Cliff.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> CRIES AT THE THOUGHT OF LARRY WRITING POETRY................ anyway thank you for reading :D feedback appreciated!!!!


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